


Body Heat

by InkEngineCompany



Category: Osmosis Jones (2001)
Genre: Amnesia, Drama, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Multi, POV Third Person Limited, Psychological Drama, Slow Burn, it's from thrax's perspective just third person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 18:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25850176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkEngineCompany/pseuds/InkEngineCompany
Summary: Thrax manages to avoid being dissolved in the alcohol and finds his way back into Frank, but he's left weak, alone, and with a bad case of retrograde amnesia.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

There was a certain fogginess to whatever sensations did manage to penetrate the haze his mind was in. As if he were in a bacchanalian stupor, the sudden realization that he was walking took him by surprise and promptly caused him to stumble and fall. He groaned, but it sounded alarmingly more like a sob as his breath hitched in his throat and he realized he was struggling to breathe.

_Move, you idiot._ He could almost hear the jaws of his inner voice snapping out the thought.

All he could manage to do was to feebly lift his head, but with his dreds having curtained over his face after his fall, it did him no good in the way of giving him a look at his surroundings. Already fatigued, he lowered his face to the ground again. He was faintly aware of an acrid smell around him and a dull, ever-present pain radiating through his body, but his clouded mind had, at least, the benefit of numbing his care about such things.

He inhaled raggedly and ground his teeth before forcing himself to roll onto his side. If he had enough breath he would've screamed in reaction to the pain that suddenly flared at the movement. It was unexpected, and his eyes went wide before screwing shut. He moaned.

Few things, he realized dully, were as sobering as pain. And after the worst waves of it had finished battering his consciousness, there was a faint crowning of lucidity that followed. He suddenly had enough wherewithal to really _look_ at what he'd been blankly gazing at this whole time. His vision, though blurred, was under his grasp of control enough for him to scan his surroundings from his horizontal position.

It was dark, for the most part, but faintly in the distance he could see the warm orange glow of sodium-vapor lights. From his darkened vantage point, the light was enticing. From the shadows peaked the amorphous shapes of houses filling a dirty, dingy residential street. The litter surrounding him seemed to play a role that was vaguely ornamental. It took everything within him to stymie the urge to vomit. Closing his eyes once again, he sighed.

Then it hit him.

_A body. I'm in a body._ As much as it pained him, he craned his neck to look up, as if needing to visually confirm what he knew to be fact. His eyes, now having adjusted more to the darkness, picked up on the gentle undulations of the tissues above him, the occasional pulsations of striated muscle. In the distance, he could hear the crackle of static discharge from nearby powerlines. Once again he dropped his head, the cool sidewalk beneath him a welcome respite to the heavy, heated, pounding headache that bloomed forth in waves. Bile threatened to escape his-

_Oh, fuck when did that happen?_

First surprise and then disgust gripped him as he realized he had already puked. Had he blacked out for a minute? The world was spinning and the fog he'd been under once again tickled his senses, fatigued his mind. Yes, it was entirely likely. When the smell finally reached him, his lip curled in response, and, without thinking, he wrenched himself up, barely managing to keep himself from faceplanting into his own mess. He expected pain to sear him in response, but it never came, at least, not in a form that was as unmanageable as before. Instead, it came to him in slow, heavy pulses, like the beating of a host's heart. He held himself there, elbows locked to keep himself from collapsing.

_How the fuck did I get here?_ He wracked his brain as he spat, trying to rid his mouth of the foul taste. He didn't know _why_ he felt he shouldn't be there, and whatever inkling of an explanation he had locked in his memory bank was starting to fade the more he prodded. Shaking his head, he spat once more, more to purge to the feeling of dirtiness gripping him than the acid taste of bile. A dull pain he'd previously been unaware of lit up like sparks and drew his attention back down to his hands. When his gaze met his left hand, he paused and felt his mouth go dry.

Chemical burns. The once smooth, crimson capsid pulled taut over his fibers was now pocked with paled waxy scar tissue and fat, angry boils. The damage stopped halfway up his forearm where whatever had caused it had been stopped by his now tattered clothing. That sight itself was enough to send him into shock, but he was more fixated on his most glaring of deformities. With a shaky breath, he attempted to flex his fingers, not caring about the pain the act would surely bring him. When he found that he retained motor control, he brought the appendage towards his face, leaning into his free arm, ignoring the pops of protest from his elbow. The only thing he was focused on, he brought to eye-level. His index finger was nearly gone, clearly eaten away by whatever caustic calamity had befallen him. He shook, and averted his gaze, as if that would negate the reality he was living.

You put blinders on a horse to make it feel safer than it should, but his own diversion of sight only allowed him the faintest of relief. He covered eyes with his forearm, and clawed the ground with his right hand, his body rocked by shock. His diaphragm hitched, and from his mouth escaped a sound. A whimper.

What was going on? What had happened to him?

_Me._ A shudder wracked his core. _Who am I?_ Another low, involuntary moan found its way out of him as he heaved himself upwards until he was resting on his knees. A heavy sense of anxiety sent ripples of nausea through him. A hiccup nearly knocked him off balance, weak and dizzy as he was.

_Move, move, move._ His subconscious tongue lashed, but his body wouldn't cooperate. His eyes flicked from his hand, to the houses, to the organic ceiling above. Where would he go even if he were to move?

_Ow, FUCK!_

A sharp pain erupted in his left hand once again, and he realized, this time, it was self-inflicted. In his mental haze, he'd been nervously rolling his hands and digging his claws into his already sensitive capsid coating. Dark beads of fluid welled up where his claws had punctured and began to dribble from his hand, polka-dotting the sidewalk below. Something about this act was weirdly comforting. The wound, unlike his others, made him feel extant and in control. Pain had once again graced him with lucidity.

_I don't know who the hell I am._ He admitted to himself, grinding his teeth. This fact both terrified and grounded him. He'd been reaching out for an iota of stability in his mind and this was the best he had at the moment. Knowing that he knew nothing was still a merit-able thing to know about himself and he was going to take it.

The next inhale he took was sharp and loud, cutting the thick silence around him. It felt like he'd been holding his breath. So, he sat on his knees and closed his eyes, slumped over and slowly gulped in heavy sighs, shuddering as he exhaled. He didn't know how long he stayed like that. Exhaustion sent his mind to a slow, tarry place. His only awareness of the world around him was the reassuring solidity of the ground beneath him.

His mind felt like it was turning in on itself. Imploding. Heavy as it was, it became harder to think. This fatigue was nasty and if it weren't for his hiccuping breaths he would've hardly believed he was still alive.

_Thud._

The sound didn't really register as a sound to him. Instead, with his eyes closed and his heavy torso half folded over itself, mind halfway to delirium, he felt it more than anything. A vibration that sent a shot of adrenaline straight to his diaphragm, ruining the work he'd been doing to steady his breath.

“Hey, buddy, what are you doing?”

Through his closed lids, he registered a change in lighting. A flashlight, perhaps, was shone on him. Even with his eyes closed, it seemed like a searing spotlight to his thudding head.

“Hey. What are you doing out here? Are you intoxicated, sir?”

God, he wished he was. He wished that's what this was. If he wasn't so out of it, he would have laughed at the statement.

“Sir?” The voice was more forceful, but to him it still sounded like he was underwater. He wanted to reply, he really did, but he was afraid if he opened his mouth, he'd puke again. Instead, he forced himself to look up, unfolding himself slowly and shakily.

The light was bright. It burned. He narrowed his eyes in an attempt to block it out without having to endure the pain of raising his arm.

“Holy spit.” He could tell it was the blurry blob holding the light who had said it. More sounds came from the figure. A frenzied rustling, some hurried breaths. Without him even trying, he produced a sound he mused was supposed to resemble a ' _huh'_ but all that came from him was a heavy vibration in his throat and a soft whisper of air from his lips.

“ _Don't move!_ ” The voice was loud now, angry, demanding. He didn't care though. He was fading out fast and as far as he was concerned he was already resting soundly in the arms of impassiveness. Something wet slipped past his lips. _Am I fucking drooling?_

The figure's next words were incomprehensible to him. Not because they were speaking unclearly, but because he realized he had toppled over again and was unable to move - the alluring hold of unconsciousness coaxing him to sleep. All that he could make out over the sounds of his own heavy breathing were two faint words.

_Virus_ and _Arrest._

And with that, he was out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Briefly, we switch to Ozzy's point of view. He's, uh, having a rough night.

“Shit, man, it's really him.”

When he'd gotten the call that the virus who'd singlehandedly almost killed everyone in Frank was found wandering deliriously near the big toe, he honestly thought it was the worst kind of joke.

“You tellin' me y'all found a ghost?”

“This isn't a joke, Jones, and for your information he's about halfway to being one from what I've heard.” The chief had been indignant with him, “It wasn't my plan to interrupt your vacation, but they need you and your partner over at that hospital, Saint Francis, to identify him.” The rest of the conversation was lost to his memory.

Ozzy was about two weeks deep into a much needed vacation following he and his partner's triumph over Thrax. _Some fuckin' vacation._ It really wasn't much of one. Frank was in a fragile state, irregardless of the fact that he was slowly on the up and up. A temperature as high as he'd had only meant permanent tissue damage and all kinds of trouble for the people up in Cerebellum Hall. Cells were sick, weak, and a special, watchful eye was placed on certain classes of cells that would be most affected by Frank's weakened state. Of course he'd been given a month off. The chief had disguised it as a reward, a 'thank you', for his actions, and he knew it was, at least in some capacity, that. He also knew, though, that the not so subtle nudges from the precinct to get a psych eval before returning to work weren't just for shits and giggles.

He had tried, tried real hard, to mask how much that virus-hunt had affected him. Ever since his near death experience with Thrax, it felt like he'd been white knuckle-ing every moment. During this _vacation_ , Ozzy had found himself taking many a nervous late-night drive around the city to survey the slow progress of reconstruction. At least, that's he was telling himself. He was genuinely curious to see how quickly his home was recovering from such a destructive malady but he didn't want to admit to himself why, more often than not, he was meandering the arteries at all hours of the night.

He couldn't sleep.

Insomnia was nothing new to him. After losing his family as a kid, he probably notched about 15 years off his lifespan with how little he slept in the months following. He'd recovered before and he knew, with time, he'd recover again. But that call, that fucking call, had to happen when he was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring out his window, considering if he should, once again, evade sleep and head out to mindlessly cruise Frank. It was now another haunting reminder of why he shouldn't sleep at that hour.

“I can't believe it's fuckin' him.” He shuddered, and pulled himself away from the small break in the curtains shielding the ICU room from view. Drix was next to him, idling quietly. He knew he was staring at him with concern, but Ozzy was too exasperated to feign normalcy.

“I just do not understand how this could have happened.” Drix finally spoke, making Ozzy jump and then roll his shoulders to pretend he hadn't been startled. Before any other words could be exchanged, the tip-tapping of an approaching doctor's shoes collected their attention.

“Ah, Officer Jones,” A nod of acknowledgment, “Officer Koldrelieff” another nod, “I appreciate your being here on such short notice.” The white coat shuffled a few papers he was holding and then looked up to the both of them, “I'm doctor Sebum. Would you mind following me to another room where we can talk in private?”

The waiting room was populated with several smaller private rooms, separated from the main space by thick partitions. Ozzy could see ghostly shapes of few people wandering by through the frosted glass walls. The room felt small, claustrophobic, and it wasn't just because Drix took up about half the available space in the room. Ozzy felt sick.

The low rumble of the doctor clearing throat was enough to snap him back into reality.

“Well, I doubt this is something anyone could have predicted.” There was the slightest suggestion of humor in the man's words, but to Ozzy it came off as a weak attempt at gauging the atmosphere of the room.

“That is certainly one way to put it.” Drix huffed. Ozzy scratched his chin.

“Well, yes, it certainly is.” The doctor once again shuffled his papers, hardly trying to hide, at this point, his visible discomfort, “Let's get to it. The virus, Thrax, was brought in about three hours ago after having been found in the suburban community of-” He squinted at his papers, “-Tarsulla, in the left big toe. On his way here, he coded once and, if you're not aware, viruses are universally under a strict DNR order. Luckily for him, though, he came back on his own shortly after. He was admitted, triaged, and assessed in the ER. Turns out about 20% of his body has been burned...” _Burned?_ Ozzy sat up. _The alcohol._ “...but as far as we're concerned those injuries are old news. Viral bodies are a lot more...resilient than ours, and those injuries he sustained about two weeks ago.” The doctor paused, almost as if giving the two of them time to digest what they were hearing. Ozzy didn't understand.

“Then why's he sittin' on death's doorstep?” He clasped his hands together and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He was tired. This was tiring.

The doctor ran a hand through his short hair before pursing his lips and giving him an odd look over the top of his glasses.

“Toxicology came back and gave us a surprise” he held out one of the papers to Ozzy who took it tentatively. Drix leaned over to look at it too. It was some kind of lab report, populated with incomprehensible medical jargon and collections of numbers. Ozzy looked up, slightly irritated, but the doctor was quick to recover, “...it appears he attempted to kill himself.” Ozzy hadn't even noticed Drix taking the paper out of his hand. While the pill was no doubt taking in and calculating the information on the sheet, Ozzy sat vacantly, staring at the doctor.

“This is unbelievable – cytokine, urea, nitrogen...it just keeps going! This list is the worst biological cocktail I've seen.” Drix sputtered out, narrowing his eyes at the paper, as if that would somehow change what he was seeing. Ozzy looked from the doctor to his partner to the doctor again.

“You tellin' me that was all floatin' through him?”

The doctor nodded.

“Not just circulating in his system, but in his digestive tract, too.” He sighed, and for the first time Ozzy saw how fatigued this guy looked. _You're not the only one whose tired, asshole._ He scolded himself.

“You don't just end up with this kind of stuff in your system unless you want it to be there.” The doctor handed Ozzy another paper. A gruesome looking photo took up its entirety. Though the photo was black and white, it didn't take much sleuthing to tell it was Thrax's arm. There were spidery track marks near his inner elbow, signs of recent intravenous drug use, but that's not what gave Ozzy pause. Suddenly, things started to make a little bit more sense.

_His claw's gone_.

It was then that Ozzy mused that however the virus had avoided being dissolved by the alcohol, it hadn't exactly been a perfect escape. The virus had, indeed, avoided death, but at the cost of what quite wholly defined his existence as a virus.

_Rubrum-viridae._ That's what the brains up in Cerebellum Hall had Thrax officially classed as. No one had ever seen anything like him, and that destructive claw of his was something to behold. Thrax had mentioned something about getting his way into the medical books, Ozzy guessed that wasn't what he'd had in mind. He shook his head and narrowed his eyes at the photo of the virus's mutilated hand. Without that claw of his, he'd be no more dangerous than the common cold, regardless of his fighting skills and intellect. _Not that he's going anywhere anytime soon._ He hadn't been able to see much when he stood tiptoed outside of the virus's room. It was dark, and the curtains were drawn, but the soft light that managed to cascade from outside bathed the virus's crumpled form in just enough light for him to tell it was, indeed, really him. Ozzy's mouth was suddenly dry.

“So,what? He got hurt, found his way back into Frank, spent the last two weeks doing Frank knows what, and then he just decides to kill himself?” He didn't mean to sound so irate but the doctor appeared to be unfazed.

“More or less, that's what we've gathered so far. He's not exactly conscious at the moment and even if he were, I have little faith that he'd be willing to divulge that kind of information.” He chewed his top lip for a second, to Ozzy it looked like he was wrestling with something.

“Virology is one of my fields of study. To the viruses that have integrated into our society peacefully, willingly, losing their ability to infect and destroy would be something like a blessing from Frank. To the more...aggressive of their kind, well...it's like taking away their livelihood. Most viruses have a high kill-drive, it's just how they're born. It's not our job to understand it, just deflect it. And in an individual like Thrax, we can see that his kill-drive is quite...” he pushed his glasses higher, “...present. It's running the show, essentially. So, to me, it's not surprising that in what was probably the weakest moment of his life, the realization that he can no longer satisfy that urge was enough to send him over the deep end and make an attempt on his life.” The doctor said this with the least emotion he'd shown the whole time he'd been talking. For some reason, this irked Ozzy.

For a few tense moments, nothing was said. The only thing that kept them from being enveloped by complete silence was the outside hustle of the nearby ICU ward, the papery rustle of nurses in scrubs a welcome sound to Ozzy. It was Drix broke the silence. The abrupt clearing of his throat, causing Ozzy to once again jump.

“So, is it possible for us to see him?”

Ozzy wanted to know too, and he silently thanked Drix for speaking when his own tongue wouldn't let him. In response, the doctor shifted his jaw, a brief shock of white glaring at them as his lips pulled back slightly to reveal his teeth. There was an ambiguous emotion on his face.

“Yes, but, once again, I must mention that he's unconscious. A medically induced coma. When first admitted, he was breathing on his own, but barely, so he was put on a vent. And, at this point, he's not breathing on his own at all. We're keeping him heavily sedated so he won't fight the vent, but even if we weren't, with how toxic his system is, I highly doubt he would be conscious anyway.” He gave a heavy sigh and stood up, coattails falling from the chair to hang just above the floor. “Neurology will be getting back with us shortly, maybe within the hour, and we'll be able to roughly gauge where he stands functionality wise, granted we can only know for sure when he decides to start breathing on his own.”

Ozzy didn't know what else to do but nod at the statement. The doctor then held out a hand, offering Drix the rest of the papers he'd been holding. The pill took them wordlessly. Ozzy felt his attention was on him instead.

“The rest of these documents are for your report on his case, should you need them. You are free to enter his room, but I ask you two do so only one at a time.” The doctor reached for the door and gave them a nod, “His room is set to be a low stimulation environment, as we assume he's suffered a bit of brain trauma and we don't want to potentially spike his intracranial pressure. So, please keep noise to a minimum, do not turn on any extra lights, and close the door as soon as you enter.” And with that, the doctor opened the door and stepped aside, putting a hand out to gently usher them out and into the waiting room.

After they were left alone, the two sat in the waiting room, silence heavy between them. The area was mostly devoid of other people, but across the room a mother and child sat, faces sullen. It didn't take a genius to muse they were there for anything but a pleasant visit.

“Jones.”

Ozzy looked up. Drix face was soft, but the creases in his forehead and around his eyes betrayed the gentleness of his voice.

“Yeah?” Ozzy didn't have the energy to say much else. He usually had coffee (spiked with adrenaline) to get him through long nights like this, but after that damn phone call he'd not the time for getting that vice. Exhaustion gripped him, and he was, quite honestly, done with this case before it had even really began.

“Are you okay?”

Ozzy let out a soft snort and couldn't help but tiredly grin. Somehow that act in itself was energizing.

“Yeah. Just...haven't been sleeping. I'm tired.” He inhaled and sat back in his seat, closing his eyes, and for the briefest of moments it emulated the sensation his body screamed for, “This feels like a nightmare, man.”

Drix gave a small chuckle.

“I can agree with that.” silence, “Are you going to go see him?”

Ozzy honestly didn't know the answer to that question. This was an extension of his case that he thought he'd closed two weeks ago. Even though it wasn't ideal, it still was his case. He had to face it. Apprehension roiled in his gut, he felt nauseous. It was then he realized he was...scared. He didn't know if he wanted to get close to the virus again, regardless of the fact he was half dead and probably full of enough sedatives to drug half the city. That crimson motherfucker was the reason he couldn't sleep and he couldn't run from that fact any longer, because whether or not he liked it that fact was down the hall choking on a ventilator.

Ozzy sighed and shrugged, sitting forward in his seat again and staring at the institutional green floor tile.

“Might as well. Gonna' haf' to some time or another.” He looked at Drix who sat up upon noticing his gaze.

“Well, I'll wait here then. Maybe if I can figure out one of those vending machines I'll get you a coffee for when you get back.”

Ozzy couldn't help but smile at that. Drix was a good partner, however ill-equipped he was for handling emotional distress. He knew Drix had been aware, at least vaguely, that something was wrong with him during their collective _vacation_ time. Ozzy had repeatedly brushed him off when he'd asked if anything was wrong, and though he knew his half-hearted 'I'm alrights' were less than reassuring, Drix had the sense to abandon the questioning and just offer his presence as needed. Yeah, he was a good partner. He hoped he knew that.

Ozzy wordlessly got up and headed deeper into the ICU ward, taking a deep breath when he stood in front of Thrax's closed room door. Without giving himself time to back out, he slid open the door and stepped in, heeding the doctor's words as he closed it gently behind him.

It was dark in the room. Only a dim light above the sink illuminated the place, bathing it in a pale, ghostly glow. A whiteboard with patient notes had “Thrax, Rubrum-Viridae” hastily scribbled across the top. With a sigh, Ozzy finally wrenched his meandering gaze towards the figure in the bed. The gentle beeping of an EKG told him the virus was stable, the aggressive _whoosh_ -ing of the vent was assurance that he was breathing. He narrowed his eyes at the reclined form. Like this, Thrax looked so much...smaller...like he'd been deflated. Ozzy wasn't the tallest guy around but he wasn't the shortest either, and yet Thrax's height had stunned him when they were first acquainted. The virus was hardly recognizable now.

There was a chair pulled up to the side of the bed, and hesitantly Ozzy took a seat. He sat there quietly, for a few minutes, just...observing, digesting what was in front of him. His gaze went to the virus's once deadly hand, which was now bandaged heavily and hidden from view. He lingered there for a moment before looking back up to his face. The virus somehow looked more sallow than he had the last he'd seen him. The color of his capsid was paled. Hesitantly, Ozzy laid a hand on the small bit of exposed skin on Thrax's arm, and found that it was cold. He pulled his hand back. The virus had all signs of a dead-man.

_Bet this is ironic for you._ He thought, sourly. _You're usually on the other end of this whole dying thing, aren't you?_

Distantly, he remember hearing once that a person in a coma can still hear what's going on around them. He didn't know if that was a myth or not, but that didn't stop him from sighing and opening his mouth.

“Thrax.” He hissed lowly. “You're gonna' wake up, because if I can't sleep, you're not allowed to either.”

He stood up abruptly, let his gaze linger on the virus for a moment longer, and turned to walk out the door. He passed a nurse on his way out, who looked for the briefest of moments like she was going to say something to him, but he heard nothing as he continued on.

When he got to the waiting room, Drix was there, true to his word, with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooo, two chapters in two days. This is a record for me. Enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. I haven't written a fanfic in half a decade, so here's this thing. I'm a sucker for slow burn fics and all kinds of tangential writing, unfortunately for you, the audience. (or not so unfortunately, if you enjoy that sort of thing.) Anyway, I have no idea where this story is going to go, but it's fun to write so here i go. I apologize in advance if I 1.) abandon this entirely or 2.) update it and finish it but it'll take a million years.  
> I'll update the tags and characters as they become relevant/make their appearance.  
> There may be some minor shipping later on???but like it's not the focus of the story nor will it be explicit.  
> ANyway, even if i do keep going with this, this is mostly going to develop into a slice of life drama kind of thing??? Minor action elements or whatever, but mostly drama, dialogue, and shit like that.


End file.
